


Silver Fox

by Madame de flammes (owlaholic68)



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Backstory, Disabled Character, Family Issues, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Siblings, Warlocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/Madame%20de%20flammes
Summary: A bushel of wheat is worth seven copper, maybe six if bugs had gotten to it. A good Wheatworth is worth a bushel of wheat, no more, no less. Silvia Wheatworth hopes that she’s worth a lot more than seven copper.A story about family expectations, first kills, and her Grandmother’s old sword.





	Silver Fox

“Don’t ever trust the Fey,” Grandma says as an admonishment when she hears that Silvia went out into the wheat fields alone one night. “They snatch up little children who go out past dark.”

Silvia is only six years old, so she nods and promises. “All Fey?” She asks, voice quiet because even though her parents sleep two floors up, sound can carry in this drafty basement room. She asks if _all_ because Uncle says that _all_ Wheatworths love to work the land, but not Silvia. Father says that _all_ Wheatworths don’t have the slightest taste of magic, but Silvia made wheat stalks dance with the beat of a drum last week. _A Good Wheatworth is worth a bushel of wheat._

The implication of _and not worth a copper more_ doesn’t come to Silvia this young.

Grandma chuckles to herself. “I guess not all of them, but most. You didn’t hear this from me, dear, but I personally knew one who wasn’t so bad after all. But you never know,” and there comes the stern look again, “so just always be careful. We don’t want you getting lost.”

* * *

“Would anyone even notice if I got taken by the Fey?” Silvia wonders aloud. She’s thirteen now, and wiser. “If I didn’t get up to let out the chickens, Douglas will, and they’ll just assume I overslept. Then he’ll forget to even mention anything, and days could go by before Mother or Father notice. The Temple in town would probably realize first.”

Grandma sharply raises her head from her knitting. “Don’t talk like that,” she snaps. In her lap, five-year-old Petra squirms at the rough tone. “I’d notice.”

“You would?”

“Of course I would. I notice everything.” Grandma’s wrinkled face softens in a smile. She looks around to make sure they’re alone and undisturbed before leaning in with a conspiratorial look. “They used to call me ‘Silver Fox’ because of my keen eyes.”

“Really? What?” Silvia cocks her head to the side. “Who would call you that, Grandma? I thought good Wheatworths didn’t leave home, and they weren’t fit to be legends or heroes.”

Grandma’s face sours and she sniffs in disapproval. “Dear, that particular way of thinking is not quite as old or traditional as your parents make it out to be. Things in this family used to be different.”

That’s all she’ll say on the matter for now.

* * *

Silvia is twenty-four years and seven months old, and she is very glad her Grandmother gave her those fencing lessons.

Her opponent, the mid-level Capitaz of this gang’s hideout, obviously thinks her a novice. He arrogantly lunges, leaving his right flank open. A rookie mistake from someone with a reputation like Manuel Grilo. He pays for it.

 _Keep your free hand out of the way,_ Grandma’s voice whispers in the back of Silvia’s mind. She tucks it on her hip over the head of her drum, her fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm. _Shoulders back and twisted._ Easily done. _Now when you attack, make sure you’re leaving as little of yourself vulnerable as possible. You’ll have the advantage, being a gnome and left-handed. Now strike!_

And so Silvia stabs forward between one breath and another, the ornate handle of _Récolte_ firm in her grasp. It finds its mark. Grilo snarls in pain and tries to retaliate, but is unused to both such a short partner and one who fences with the opposite hand. Silvia dances out of his way and around before taking a risky strike. She catches Grilo’s shoulder and yanks down with her blade, shifting to the side with the momentum as her blade tears through his chest. It gets stuck and Silvia panics at the proximity before realizing that she’s not in danger anymore.

Grilo is dead. Silvia just killed him.

The rest of the battle wraps up behind her as she braces one foot on the corpse and pulls her blade free. _Récolte_ is dripping blood on the stone floor of this warehouse and Silvia just _killed_ someone. Her first kill is a mob boss who was extorting an innocent woman and who also kidnapped a totally different woman and was apparently torturing her for information. Not a bad target for her first harvest.

 _Go out and do some good,_ Grandma had whispered as Silvia was halfway out the cellar window, antique rapier shoved in her belt and too-small pack on her back. _I want your heroic story to rival the famed Silver Fox._

Rico nips at her sleeve and Silvia shakes herself. They need to get the hell out of here before law enforcement comes to investigate the ruckus. She takes a linen handkerchief _(Wheatworths don’t waste time and coin on frivolities such as silk)_ and wipes down her blade before following the others.

A look back over her shoulder at the grisly scene. Silvia shivers and wonders if she’s still a good Wheatworth. She sincerely hopes not.

* * *

Silvia is twenty-four years and five months old when she runs away from home and never looks back. Just her, her grandmother’s old sword, a handful of daggers, and a drum that was her secret twenty-fourth birthday present from the Temple priests.

Not alone, though. The family’s fourth-in-command rooster had insisted upon joining her, following her down the long dirt path leading from the immense farmhouse and towering silo. It was a scant few hours before dawn, and Silvia couldn’t risk wasting the time or the silence to make Rico stop.

Just her and a particularly meek rooster going out to Chauntea-knows-where. Is this what a good Wheatworth does?

* * *

“Come on, Grandmother, please,” Petra whispers after candles have been extinguished for the night. “You already taught us _Friends_ and _Minor Illusion._ Surely there’s more you know!”

The three of them are the only occupants of the curtained-off corner of the basement they call their room. Petra and Silvia share a bunk bed, with Grandma on a more simple pallet on the cold floor. “The Misfits Corner”, an Aunt had muttered one day when she thought that Silvia hadn’t been listening.

It isn’t untrue. Grandma was the last of her generation, taken in by the “generous hospitality” of Silvia’s parents. She had a past that everybody preferred to ignore. Her old bones creaked and her hearing was starting to go. Not particularly good for tending fields or animals, so she spent time mending or cleaning.

It always felt to Silvia that her younger sister Petra was born to the wrong family. She should have had richer parents who would have spared the coin for a proper healer after her accident. She should have had family that cared enough to at least find her new canes that accommodated her alarming growth spurts. She should be in school learning how to be the greatest Wizard in Callaica, maybe even at the College of the Arcane in Olinda. Not stuck in some downriver town with family who only saw her as a broken nuisance.

And Silvia. Good for nothing but wasting time with music, as her Mother had reprimanded her time after time. Far too dedicated to Temple than a normal child, though not particularly devout at home.

The truth was, the local Temple to Chauntea, Goddess of Agriculture, was the only place where Silvia could play music in peace. She could sing and play drums as loudly as she wanted, and all the priests would do is hum along or invite her to ceremonies or dig up old ritual songs for her to learn.

Farm work held no appeal. Business and finance didn’t interest her. Cleaning was a chore that she begrudgingly dealt with so at least she didn’t have to be out in the field. Tending the animals wasn’t so bad, since the chickens didn’t mind her singing and the cows were loud enough to cover the occasional hummed ditty while she was milking them.

“I don’t know anymore spells,” Grandma mutters in reply, grumpily turning over in her cot. “Can’t an old woman get any sleep around here?”

“You _do_ know more spells,” Petra presses. “I saw you cast _Mage Hand_ the other day!”

“You already know that one,” Silvia retorts from the top bunk.

“Yeah, but I was trying to prove a point! Come on, at least something stronger than a cantrip!”

“Ssh!” Grandma hisses and they fall silent. “Fine, I do still have some tricks up my sleeve. But no more spells for tonight, I need to get some material together for that. How about we do something a little bit different?” She sits up and rummages under her mattress, pulling out something silver and shining in the dimness of their Darkvision.

Silvia covers her mouth to stifle a gasp. Grandma was keeping a _sword_ under her bed? And she never told them?

“I think you need a backup plan. You can’t rely on arcane power for everything. Now come on and get up, let me teach you the basic stance. You too, Petra.”

She instructs them on how to stand, how to turn so they present the small possible target.

“Now this is called _Récolte._ It’s an old blade, but it’s been faithful to me over the years.”

 _“Récolte?”_ Silvia echoes, the elven word unfamiliar. She’s got the basics down of the language, but this word escapes her.

“Harvest?” Petra whispers, grinning. She caught onto languages faster than Silvia did. “Grandma, why do you have a sword called _Harvest?”_

“It’s a joke from an old friend. Now, here’s how you hold it. We’ll practice a few basic moves that may save your life someday.”

* * *

There’s a shack halfway been the Wheatworth farm and town that nobody notices.

Silvia and her Grandmother are walking home, trudging with the weight of three days worth of groceries for the huge family when it flickers on the edge of Silvia’s vision. She pauses and nudges up her glasses with her shoulder, then looks again.

“Grandma? Did you see something there?”

Her Grandmother adjusts the packages in her grip and shrugs. “Oh, that old shack? Yes, dear, I know exactly what’s going on with that. Don’t you worry, it’s simply a bit of Fey magic that makes it hard to find.”

“Oh.” Silvia knows that tone of voice, the one that demands no questions asked. “It’s safe?” _Never trust the Fey,_ Grandma had said before.

“Perfectly safe. I built it myself.”

“Oh.” The rest of the walk home is in silence. Lots for Silvia to think about, and too many questions to ask.

* * *

Grandma has a guardian angel. Eight-year-old Silvia is sure of it, because she saw him one night.

That day had been rough. First a thorough talking-to by Mother for feeding the chickens too much. Then just before midday, her older sister Amy had caught Silvia singing to herself while scrubbing the floor. Amy was always a big stupid tattletale. That had led to Father making her sweep out the whole cow barn by herself.

Then during dinner, something happened. Silvia was too busy keeping her head down to understand the start of it, but all of a sudden Mother and Father were yelling and Grandma was yelling right back at them. They were all angry and upset and Silvia was already sliding off her chair when Mother snapped at the children to go to their rooms.

Silvia hid in bed and imagined she wasn’t there. She pretended like she was out adventuring, maybe in an old abandoned castle! There was an evil lich with a pet red dragon. Silvia killed the dragon with a cool sword and musical fire magic, then she helped her friends (who were all cool fighters and wizards) defeat the lich who was going to destroy the world!

She’s almost dreamed herself to sleep when Grandma comes back downstairs. The basement corner is quiet, so Silvia hears her crying a little. She starts crying too because it’s been one of those days, but it’s not so quiet.

“Come here, dear,” Grandma whispers. Silvia needs no further encouragement to climb under the covers with her, tucking the worn quilt to her chin.

“Grandma, I hate living here,” Silvia sobs. “I wish we could just run away and live somewhere else. I don’t wanna be a farmer for the rest of my life.”

“We can’t run away.” Grandma sighs and takes Silvia’s glasses off, putting them on the crate that served as a nightstand. “That’s not how I do things, child. We just stick it out. Things will get better, I promise. What’s important is not everyone upstairs. They don’t matter at all. What matters is you. Me. What’s important is that we are happy, if only to spite those uptight chuckleheads that wouldn’t know happiness if it hit them in the face.” She shifts to her back and stares up at the ceiling. “Can you try for me? I want you to be happy. Try your best, okay?”

“I’ll try.” Silvia doesn’t know how, but she’s starting to get the idea. She yawns and falls asleep faster than she ever thought possible.

She wakes to quiet voices: one familiar and one foreign. The unfamiliar one has a strange lilting accent.

“I’ll be fine.” The familiar one is Grandma, of course. “Really, dear. We’ve had our dark days before, and nothing even came close to this.”

“If you’re certain,” the voice replies. Vaguely male with a hint of light amusement in his voice.

“I am. Remember that time that I’d _just_ gotten that expensive-ass diamond we needed, and then Rosanna had to use it to _Revivify_ me after that Orc army took me down? That was a much bigger pain than this.”

“Still.” Now the voice seems less amused. “Sharron darling, as an old friend, I must ask: Are you happy?”

Silvia stays very still and tries to keep her breathing slow.

There is a very long pause before the answer comes: “I am trying to be. And I am going to keep trying until I make it. It would hurt my reputation pretty severely if I started giving up now, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess it would. Well, if ever you want to leave this all behind, you only have to speak the word. In the meantime, a gift. Good night, Sharron. And when you eventually tell your little one here about this, make sure you _do_ warn her not to trust us in general, please. I don’t want to hear about her growing up to be some power-hungry Warlock or something.”

“A warlock? Come dear, that’s not something a good Wheatworth would ever be.”

The voice simply laughs. Silvia falls asleep to the sound. When she wakes, there’s a bouquet of fresh flowers in vase on the bedside crate. Half a dozen roses plus lilies and other flowers too exotic for Silvia to recognize.

She never asks Grandma about the visitor, and years later has convinced herself that it was just a wild dream.

* * *

Sharron Wheatworth is thirty-one years old and on a quest.

More of an arcane shopping list from her new patron. She’s already learning so much about magic and swordfighting and adventuring.

Two months ago she had the longest dream of her life. What was hours of sleep in the real world felt like days in the dreamspace. Her benefactor taught her magic, everything from small cantrips to whatever more significant spells he had time to teach her in those moments. Then came swordfighting practice with a shiny ornate rapier with an ironic name. With these gifts came a quest and the promise of more rewards.

The quest: this archfey patron needed a stable means of transport between the Feywild and the Material Plane. In order to accomplish this, he needed a permanent place, both physical and metaphysical, created with certain rare components:

1 jacinth gemstone worth at least 1000 GP, 1 ornately carved silver bar worth at least 100 GP, a forked metal rod worth at least 250 GP attuned to the Material Plane. These were difficult and rare indeed. Next items were going to be where Sharron would start in her search: rare chalks and inks infused with gems worth at least 50 GP. These would be used to draw a powerful ritual circle. And last but certainly the most daunting task: A diamond worth at least 1000 GP.

Four months into her journey, Sharron has the inks and chalks. She also has a place picked out: a crumbling shack between her family’s farm and the nearby town. Her patron helps put up arcane wards so people forget it’s there. A safe place to stash the supplies she’s gathered.

He’s proud of her. She learns powerful spells that night, and something equally important: the fact that this archfey actually kept his promise. He promised her more power in exchange for items received, and he delivered when that condition was met.

Three months later, a stroke of luck earns her a favor from a metalsmith. The silver bar and metal rod are exchanged for the ability to summon demons and nullify attackers’ arcane powers.

More things are learned. Her patron is patient and forgiving. It takes her a year to get the jacinth gemstone, and by the end of it her travelling companions start affectionately calling her “Little Fox” for her cunning and prowess. She’s not fond of the “Little” part of it, but the “Fox” part sticks.

Another year goes by. No diamond. Sharron weathers storms and horrific monsters and betrayals and angry letters from home, and yet she continues.

She finally gets the diamond. Then she dies.

“I’m sorry,” Rosanna sobs when Sharron, alive again, opens her eyes to the bright blue sky. “I – It was all we had, I didn’t have another diamond big enough to cast the spell with.”

Sharron sits up and holds the handful of dust from the shattered precious diamond. The useless sparkling dust slips between her fingers. “No matter,” she croaks. “I’m alive, and that’s what matters. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“One other thing.” Rosanna sits back on her heels and swipes her grubby hand across her cheeks. “Um, I think maybe we should start calling you Silver Fox from now on. Look.” She holds up her gleaming silver shield.

Sharron’s eyes widen at her reflection. Her long flowing hair, previously dark and coarse, has gone a silky grey. “Silver Fox.” She grins and starts laughing, adrenaline from having just died rushing to her pounding heart. “I think I really like that!”

* * *

Silvia is quiet as she gathers her things. There’s not much to gather, and she’s careful to stay quiet.

“Silvia.” Not quiet enough, it seems. Her grandmother sits up from the bed and glares at her. “Where do you think you’re going in the middle of the night?”

“I’m leaving. And nobody can stop me.”

“Well then, I might as well not even try. But let me give you something.” Grandma reaches under her bed and pulls out _Récolte._ “Take it. You’ll need it in case of danger.”

Silvia swallows hard and takes the sword. “Grandma, I can’t-”

“Yes you can. Now leave while you still have time.”

“I’ll come back,” Silvia promises. “I’ll get a place in the city and then I’ll come back and take you and Petra with me. She can go to school there.”

“Good plan.” Grandma hugs her briefly before letting go and opening the cellar window. “Now go out and do some good. I want to hear stories of the Little Brown Fox that did something heroic.”

“Thank you.” Silvia pauses with one leg out the door and looks back. “Grandma, am I a good Wheatworth?”

“Absolutely not. But Silvia my dear, you are good person. In the end, that’s worth way more than a bushel of wheat.”


End file.
